


— reveille —

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, One Sex Reference, Spoilers for 1x18 Promo, conceptual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23311618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Was Malcolm sane anymore looking through the mirror at himself, at the wall, the floor, the broken green door swinging each time he went in and out? A conceptual piece. Includes references to content in 1x18 promo.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	— reveille —

The girl bounced off every corner in his head, screaming, wailing, shouting, "Let me _out_ " to escape the confines of the damn box and go _home_ — each time her caterwauling sounded the alarm from raucous to dim, from wild to subdued — was he sane anymore looking through the mirror at himself, at the wall, the floor, the broken green door swinging each time he went in and out — no, not him — yes, sure, he's fine, of course — where the girl spun and twirled and became the new girl became the old girl became the new standing in his doorway saying, “She's my sister,” running away before he could get a word in, taking anything he had ever said, ever dreamed, turned berries into cherries turned paper into sand tossed on his grave — did his father know he was setting him up on a blind date twenty years in advance — did he know now that she stood in front of him, her blonde hair and blue eyes cloaking her face, only to be revealed in the shape of her chin to her cheek, her delicate bones up to her brow, the soft crease into her hair — that with every caress, every time he kneaded her breasts and she rode him thirsting in the moonlight, it could be traced back to him, tracts of evil and pain all pathed to _Martin_ — did he know he still had control over him — would he wield it like a hammer of Thor to hit him to a space he’d never return from, or would it always be a threat looming, never to materialize, never to appear like girls in boxes and women who lingered trying to find answers, trying to find all he could not, still trapped in a cell block — who was in the cell, Martin or himself — was he himself without him, could he survive, his life merely an exercise on paper, a figment in the mind of the man who shaped him — could he live without seeing him twice every ten days, a ridiculous concoction instead of once every week or once every five — "My boy," where did he come up with these things, were they all that remained once succumbed to four walls — what would his cell look like, red or white, restrained or shackled, voluntary or involuntary hold — would anyone visit him in the warm June months when they could be outside at the river collecting stones to help him sink, piling them into his pockets until he was plink — plink — plink — or had he already sunk himself, and they’d cut the ties and help him rise to the top — dead — dead — dead — was there a top anymore after all this under — were there any more things to look forward to now the girl in the box was solved — would his father ever tell him about the other, steadying the pivotal blade in his hand to “It’s alright, Malcolm,” or was he doomed to repeat it, to toil and thrash until every part of him smashed into millions of hellacious pieces to be eaten by the fish — he wouldn’t wish this on anyone, so why had it been wished, carved, imagined, dreamed into his skin until he couldn’t see himself anymore, couldn’t see the boy who looked up to a man who became a serial killer under their roof, duped all of them into thinking their mother was the disciplinarian, the force to be reckoned with, the woman who would send them away with the nanny, when _he_ had been the devil inside all along — the evil, the _evil_ staring back at him with molten eyes shooting through to puppet his soul, telling him he was nothing without, _nothing_ — he’d be dead if he turned around and left — dead — Gil would fold him into his grave and die himself — dead — dead — dead — blood seeped into his blankets from every wound that ever trespassed — he _g - a - s - p - e - d_ and drew in a gigantic breath.


End file.
